


Reputation

by Ivy_Adair



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, kind of, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_Adair/pseuds/Ivy_Adair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Isobel Trevelyan is a Fallen Woman in this alternate Thedas. Disgraced at a young age and sent to live out her life in the Chantry, she never imagined that one day she'd be called upon to save the world. Her good deeds, however, are overshadowed by her reputation. Seeking to lessen the damage to the Inquisition, she has little choice but to marry. Commander Cullen Rutherford volunteers. Based on a K-Meme Prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read the prompt:[ here.](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14591.html?thread=55742463#t55742463)
> 
> **************
> 
> **A quick note on the warnings** :
> 
> This fic contains usage of the words 'whore' and 'slattern' etc in a negative context. I know some people are sensitive to these words, so I am giving you the warning now. 
> 
> This fic takes place in an alternate version of Thedas, one that is not sexually liberated towards women. If a noblewoman has sex out of wedlock, she is considered Fallen or disgraced. It is with that idea in mind that I have used this language. Please note, however, that my personal beliefs do not match the beliefs of this version of Thedas. In case it needed to be said.  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> _This work has not been proofread or edited by anyone other than myself. I acknowledge and apologize for any errors still present._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the fact that Reputation has wound up being so much more massive than I had originally intended, I have decided to turn this into a chaptered fic. This will, hopefully, allow me to publish more updates on this fic as I finish them and allow all of you to read this fic faster. I have written a more detailed post on my tumblr explaining exactly why I am doing this. 
> 
> Thank you so much for coming back and reading this fic from the beginning. Unless you're new, then...welcome. I hope you all enjoy the new, rewritten content. 
> 
> ~Ivy <3

**Solace, 9:28 Dragon**

His soft lips against hers sent tingles racing down her spine, to pool in her belly and between her legs. Isobel Trevelyan giggled as she felt the hands of her betrothed sliding roughly down her back to grip at her backside. He broke away from their kiss and panted, his forehead pressing against hers. Isobel risked opening her eyes to stare at him longingly from beneath her lashes. His eyes were pressed shut and even in the scant moonlight, she could see that his skin had flushed scarlet. Seeing him in such a state was enough to send an electrifying charge through her so strong, she could have sworn in that moment that she was just as much a mage as her brother Maxwell. The thrill of his touch and the heady desire he pulled from her, coupled with the excitement of having snuck out to an illicit rendezvous was enough to make Isobel’s knees weak.

“Elijah,” she whimpered as his left hand found her breast.

Elijah was the youngest son of Bann Reynauld, an old friend of her family and Isobel’s betrothed from the time they were out of swaddling clothes. They’d been brought together often as children and Isobel could still remember the first time she’d met Elijah, when the five-year-old had introduced himself by pushing her down into a mud puddle, ruining her favorite dress. A few years later saw Elijah pulling on the girlish plaits her Nan insisted she wear; a year after that and Elijah was tormenting her by putting frogs in her bed. Eventually the hair pulling gave way to sidelong glances and the frogs turned into flowers that Isobel would wear in her hair. Finally the year that she turned fifteen, Elijah clumsily mashed - there really was no better term for the awkward, sloppy thing - their lips together. After they were caught holding hands, Elijah’s ears were boxed, Isobel received a stern lecture about keeping herself whole until her wedding night and the two of them had to be chaperoned at all times. Their youthful affection gave way to teenaged lust and soon the pair was devising ways to meet in secret, away from prying eyes.

This evening brought the two of them together in the garden of Bann Trevelyan’s summer home just outside of Hercinia. The young couple sat underneath an embrium trellis, with no more light surrounding them than that of the tiny sliver of the waning moon. Isobel was perched in Elijah’s lap and she could do little more than grip his shoulders as his roaming hands and lips sought out her body. A tiny voice in the back of her head screamed at her that this was wrong and that she could be in a lot of trouble if caught, but Elijah’s deft fingers easing her left breast over the top of her bodice and into the open night air silenced it effectively. She squirmed and wriggled in his lap until she felt something hard jab her in the backside.

“Oh, Elijah!” she hissed, chastising. She may be inexperienced, but Isobel had certainly heard about _that_ happening.

“‘Bel, you’re driving me crazy. Let’s go back to your room.”

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered. “We aren’t married yet.”

“We might as well be! We’ve been betrothed forever and besides, you’re seventeen and I’m eighteen. We’re adults now, no vows said before a chantry sister is going to change a thing.”

“Nan always said that a woman who gives up her virtue is doomed to the void for all eternity.”

“P’shaw, what does Nan know?”

Isobel opened her mouth to retort when his fingers covered her sensitive flesh and _pinched_ , silencing her protests with a choked moan. Since birth, the idea that her worth lied solely in her ability to marry well had been hammered into her head. Her mother, the few times she’d seen the woman, had been insistent that the only girl who ever gave themselves to a man without a marriage before the Maker and society was a fool. Yet, Isobel knew that Elijah did have a point. After all, the two of them were in love and due to wed after her elder sister’s wedding the following year. In the eyes of the Maker, surely they were already as good as married? A little sliver of doubt wriggled its way through her mind. Then, something soft and wet came into contact with her delicate skin, sending a bolt of lighting through her body. She bit her lower lip to keep from moaning, unable to control the way her body writhed of its own accord.

“Please, Isobel. I can’t take any more of this.” His voice was soft, but with an edge.

“But-”

“I promise,” he murmured as he drifted his lips across her bare skin, sending sparks of shivers across her nerves. “I love you ‘Bel and I’m not going to let anything come between us. But I’m tired of waiting.”

She bit her lower lip and chewed on it as she slowly, hesitantly nodded her agreement. Elijah’s face lit up as he hoisted her up in his arms and carried her back towards the family wing of the house. They ducked down hallways to avoid the knights patrolling the halls, but eventually, they made it back to her room. Elijah’s roaming hands barely waited for her to close the door before he was already reaching for her and tugging the clothes from her skin. He grew anxious fast as he picked her up and plunked her down on the bed as he began hastily unfastening his own garments. Isobel barely had enough time to untie her bodice before Elijah already had his clothing off and was impatiently pushing the skirt of her gown up and pulling her small clothes down her thighs.

Later he rolled off of her, rose and began to dress immediately. She called out her love for him to his retreating back and in turn he promised to meet her tomorrow for their daily, chaperoned stroll. Then in what felt like mere moments after they had first come into her rooms, Isobel was left alone with only the pain between her legs as a memory of her evening with Elijah.

After that, during the day Elijah and Isobel were the very picture of a virtuous young couple. Every afternoon they’d take a chaperoned stroll through the gardens followed by chaperoned time in the library where Elijah would read aloud from one of Genitivi’s books while Isobel embroidered or sketched. By night, however, the couple resembled something out of ‘The Randy Dowager Quarterly’. Nearly every night for the rest of the summer saw Elijah sneaking into Isobel’s room and easing back the furs on her bed. They were as discreet as any teenaged lovers could ever hope to be. In their minds, they were as silent as the grave but little did they know that a whisper had begun circulating throughout the servants and guards who swore that they could hear strange noises coming from young Isobel’s room.

. . .

**Firstfall, 9:28 Dragon**

Her sister Camille’s wedding was considered to be the social event of the year. Though the Trevelyan’s were modest Banns, Camille had managed to form an attachment with the eldest son of the Margrave of Ansburg. It was an unprecedented match that benefited the entire family. Isobel’s parents were awarded with the attention and social status they so craved, her eldest brother Phillip was graced with an appointment within the Teryn of Ostwick’s court and finally, Isobel would be able to marry Elijah and begin their life together.

Once their time in Hercinia had ended, Elijah had convinced their parents that he should accompany Isobel back to the Trevelyan’s country estate, with Nan as chaperone of course. After that, it was easy for them to spend time alone. Nan was old, half-blind and hard of hearing; even though she stood guard outside Isobel’s rooms while they were staying at inns along the journey to Ostwick, Elijah always managed to sneak past. Each night he would take his pleasure from her, and she knew she should feel pride in performing her duties as his wife but it didn’t help when Elijah would finish and collapse on top of her until he could gather the energy to roll over. Nan had told her repeatedly that the act was unpleasant, and Isobel hated to admit that the elder was quite right. Still, she loved Elijah and would gladly suffer any amount of discomfort if it brought him happiness. It was the role of woman to be the touchstone for men, the Chantry Mothers said, as they were not capable of reigning in their baser instincts. It was up to her to bear the burdens of life on her shoulders, because she could be strong, like Andraste was strong. The prophet, whom served as a wife twice over for both a mortal husband and the Maker himself had been the bedrock upon which both her husbands relied; Isobel had to be as Andraste and the strength, the foundation of their marriage.

She told herself that the same reasoning applied when Elijah bowed and kissed the hand of Maris Aurel, Bann Aurel’s only daughter, at Camille’s wedding. She just had to look at the smile on his face and remind herself that she was a proper lady, and ladies do not try to reign in their husbands. She reminded herself that she cared little for petty gossip as the whispers began to reach her ears when her betrothed elected to dance three times in a row with Maris. She still said nothing as he continued to neglect her throughout the affair, despite how much it hurt to overhear people say that if Elijah married Maris, he’d inherit her father’s title, as such things could only pass to men. It didn’t matter, she told herself that he’d come for that night and reach for her and prove that he loved her. Her mother had always said it only mattered which woman received the title of wife and Lady, not the woman who warmed a man’s bed. And, in just a few months, Isobel would be Elijah’s wife.

That night, Isobel saw up in her bed and stared out the window that Elijah used to sneak into her rooms until the first rays of the dawn sun began to glow through the trees. Once the birds began to sing at the beginning of the new day, she looked over at the empty spot in her bed and tried to swallow the lump of misery that had risen in her throat. His absence meant nothing. Everything was and would be just fine.

. . .

A fortnight after Camille’s wedding and Isobel still had neither seen or nor heard a single word from Elijah. The icy clench of sharp fear and worry had long since given way to an insurmountable feeling of dread that had taken up residence in her belly. Still, night after night she lay awake and waiting and every night she was disappointed. Worse still, she couldn’t figure out how to get a note to him without arousing more suspicion. Surely any correspondence between the young lovers would be intercepted and read by their parents. Hers had begun questioning her at length, asking her repeatedly why Elijah had been so scarce. Surely Isobel must have done something, they had reasoned, with Camille’s marriage a happy memory there could be no complaint for the family’s connections or social standings, even with the stain of having a mage for a son.

Foolishly, the image of Elijah dancing with Maris Aurel kept flashing through her mind.

Finally, one afternoon a letter to Bann Trevelyan from Bann Reynauld arrived. The family had been sitting in the solar, the Bann at his writing desk and Isobel’s mother at the card table, sorting out the well-wish cards they had received at Camille’s wedding. Isobel was perched on a chaise, staring out the window and as always, contemplating the situation with Elijah. When the servant walked in the letter and said it was from Bann Reynauld, Isobel perked up immediately. If the Bann was writing her father… oh, Maker. Immediately her mind reeled with endless possibilities: Elijah was ill, or had lamed his horse and injured himself or worse, encountered some bandits or ruffians along the road. She watched as her father broke the wax seal and flipped open the letter. His eyes widened sharply as they swept across the page and in a single moment, gone was the image of her father and in its stead were the very image of irate fury. He clenched the letter in his hand and slammed his fist down on the table, causing his wife to start.

“For the Maker’s sake Phillip, what is it?” she asked irritably. The Bann rose and wordlessly shoved the letter into his wife’s hands as his eyes roamed around the room before finally landing on Isobel.

“You!” he snarled as he stormed over to her.

“Messere?” she managed to whimper.

“You stupid, foolish slattern!” he snarled as he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to the floor.

A moment later, a high-pitched shriek rang in Isobel’s ears as the paper fluttered to the floor. Isobel’s eyes snapped up, and she saw her mother standing stock-still, mouth agape and hands still outstretched as if holding the paper. The Bann let go of his daughter’s hair and ran that same hand through his own, pacing away from her. Isobel scrambled for the letter to see for herself what had caused the commotion.

_To His Lordship, Bann Phillip Trevelyan III of Ostwick:_

_Let this letter serve as notice that I, Bann Marland Reynauld am severing the betrothal contract between my son Elijah Radford Garrick Reynauld and your daughter Isobel on the grounds that her virtue is no longer intact. Several servants in Hercinia have testified to seeing the figure of a man entering and exiting Isobel’s rooms late at night under the cover of darkness. Many more witnesses claim to have heard the sounds of impropriety occurring within her rooms late in the evening. Therefore, we shall not demean ourselves by aligning with a woman of such ill-borne action._

_Signed,_

_His Lordship Bann Marland Reynauld_

Something cold, yet white-hot grabbed a hold of Isobel from within. She let the letter fall from her hands, fluttering to the floor as her eyes went wide. Her mother was in front of her now, screaming in her ears for her to pay attention. Yet, all Isobel could hear was the dull roar of the blood rushing in her ears.

“Is it true?” her mother’s shrieks finally broke through the din of white noise that had surrounded her. “Tell me they’re lying!”

“He-he said we-we were already married in th-the eyes of the M-maker,” she whispered haltingly as the torrent of emotion finally began to take hold of her.

“It was Elijah?” her mother demanded, seizing Isobel roughly by the shoulders.

“Yes!” Isobel cried as the hot tears began to flow freely down her face. She sobbed once, but as soon as the sound left her lips something hard collided against the side of her face. Sharp pain blossomed underneath her skin from a blow so strong that it made her head whip sharply to one side and forced a cry from her throat. Her hand cradled the bruised cheek as she looked back to see her mother over her, hand still outstretched.

“You stupid little fool. How many times did I tell you? You’ve ruined yourself and your family by association.” Her mother’s hand snapped and collided against Isobel’s other cheek, just as hard as the first. Isobel bit her lip hard enough to taste copper in an effort to keep from crying out again. “I told you, your worth lies between your legs and now? You’re worthless, nothing…no, less than nothing. No one wants some little doxy who couldn’t keep her legs shut.”

“Mother, please, I’m sorry. He promised me! He _promised_ me.”

Her father broke his silence by grabbing Isobel by the wrist and bodily moving her towards the door. He pushed her through the doorway, the force catching her off balance and sending her tumbling to her knees. The Bann muttered, “This room is for family, only.”

“Father?” she pleaded, her voice croaking with strain before it finally broke into a short, coughing sob. She turned to her mother, hands outstretched like she was a small child again, begging to be picked up by the absent woman. “Mother, please?”

The Bann held his wife by the shoulders and the two of them turned in unison, showing Isobel their backs. It was a small, ridiculously overdramatic gesture…and it broke her heart all the same.

**Haring, 9:28 Dragon**

The weeks the followed the revelation were filled with a sense of dread, as if they their entire world had been thrown up into the air and all they could do was wait for everything to fall. Isobel’s parents did what they could to stymie the scandal, like offer their servants in Hercinia a pay raise in exchange for their silence as well as sacking Nan. Isobel was confined to her room and all of her correspondence was delivered to her opened and obviously read. Her sealant wax was confiscated as well, so any letters or notes she wished to send had to be passed through her mother’s handmaid. The lack of freedom was hardly noticed, however, given that Isobel spent most of her time split between crying and sleeping. She stopped eating, and soon her gowns had to be laced tighter, much to her maid’s chagrin. But, Isobel noticed nothing but her own grief. Her parents were far too focused on the potential effects their daughter’s fall would have on their lives to even make sure she still breathed. The serving staff noticed and knew that Isobel was in a bad way, but none could ever summon the courage to ask after her.

On the fourth day of Haring, an announcement arrived at the Trevelyan’s door:

_Bann and Lady Renford Aurel are humbled to announce the marriage of their daughter, the Lady Maris Aurel to Lord Elijah Reynauld, fourth son of Bann and Lady Marland Reynauld._

News that the betrothal contract had been severed swept through Ostwick and the surrounding lands. At first, it seemed as if people were more content to conjecture as to the reason behind the split. The Bann and his wife foolishly started to hope that the Aurels had not given Isobel’s lack of virginity as the reason behind the break, maybe out of respect for the friendship between their families. Perhaps, they hoped, the fallout would not ruin Isobel’s reputation. The twenty-second day of Haring, however, blew their carefully laid plans back into their faces when Camille arrived unexpectedly from Ansburg.

Even from Isobel’s room, she could hear her sister’s tirade.

 _“Where is she?”_ Camille shrieked. _“Where is that wretched little creature?”_

_“Lady Isobel is confined to her rooms, your ladyship”_

_“That whore is no lady! Where is my father? Father!”_

Isobel had expected to be horrified when the news of ruin finally broke, but instead she was just… _numb_. It was as if she’d simply cried every last ounce of emotion out of her body. There was nothing but emptiness left inside. So, Isobel sat quietly on the edge of her bed and simply waited for Camille to storm in.

She only had to wait fifteen minutes.

Camille didn’t both to knock before she burst into Isobel’s room. Out of instinct alone, Isobel rose to greet her sister. The older woman stormed across the room and shoved her bony finger into Isobel’s chest.

“You,” her sister seethed. “Your little _incident_ took all the focus off of my wedding and now the Margrave has called into question _my_ connections and embarrassed me in front of his court.”

“Camille, I-”

“Did you ever even _think_ about what your actions would do to the rest of us? Thank the Maker that I had the wherewithal to get the Voided ring before you opened your legs.”

Their parents said nothing as they stood in Isobel’s doorway, watching Camille lay into their younger daughter.

In the end, it wasn’t just Camille’s pride that had taken a hit as the scandal began to break. The prestigious position that Phillip had been awarded at court was revoked. Officially, it was due to a clerical error under the guise that the position had always belonged to someone else and it was mere oversight that allowed Phillip to take it. The Bann’s social calendar emptied and Lady Trevelyan was refused service at Ostwick’s finest ladies’ salon. Finally, to save face, the Trevelyan’s publicly disowned Isobel. Without warning - to Isobel, at least - she was bodily pulled from her room one morning by her father and eldest brother. They dragged her down the stairs, her shoes squealed across the marble foyer until she was, quite literally, thrown outside.

“Messere?” Isobel whimpered as she struggled to climb on to her knees in the muck. Apparently, it had been raining the night before.

The Bann said nothing as Isobel’s family filed out of the house and regarded her as one would look at a particularly disgusting insect. Isobel shivered as her eyes darted around to see that a crowd had already formed. In her shock, she hadn’t heard their shouting and jeers over the rush of blood in her ears. As the noise finally broke, she felt tears prick at her eyes because…she already knew what was happening.

“Let all who gather here bear witness as we commit the body of our deceased daughter, Isobel Elspeth Miranda Trevelyan, to the Chantry. May Andraste grant her forgiveness for her sins,” her mother said, dramatically. Even through the fresh heartbreak and the fear that curled at her spine, some small, silly part of Isobel wanted to laugh. Her mother’s theatrics seemed so Maker-damned stupid in spite of it all.

Before Isobel had time to think, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around her waist and hefted her over the shoulder a man. Breath was forced out of her body with a groan as her stomach collided with the man’s bony shoulder. He deposited her ungraciously in the back of his wagon, right on top of a sack of… turnips, she realized. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words could possibly form. Instead, her glassy eyes skidded around the crowd and took in their snarls and jeers. A moment later, the cart lurched forward and Isobel could do nothing but watch as her former family grew smaller and smaller.

. . .

When she arrived at the Ostwick Chantry, Isobel learned that her parents had not even paid the turnip carter for taking her. Instead, it was the first of many debts she would incur to the Chantry, under the pretense that she would work them off as part of her penance. She was given a single set of scratchy sunburst robes, which she was told was to be added to the cost of her ‘transportation’. Immediately, she was forced to strip in front of a sister and bathe out of a cold bucket. Her clothes were taken from her by another, along with the little silverite bracelet that had been a gift from her grandmother. Once she finished scrubbing the sister flung coarse white powder over her body, making Isobel hiss. The powder itched her skin and began to burn, but before she could complain the sister upended the scrub bucket over Isobel’s head and drenched her in icy cold water. She cried out from fright, but she was still too shell-shocked to do anything other than stand still and shiver.

Finally, she was given a set of scratchy sunburst robes and told to dress. The Trevelyans weren’t as well off as say, the Teryn of Ostwick and his family but Isobel had always had beautiful clothes in soft fabrics to wear. The sensation of the common, coarse weave robes hitting her skin were nearly as much of a wake up call as the cold water had been. She half-wondered if the robes hadn’t had some sort of a cilice sewn into them. She was next led into another room, where a sister and a stool awaited her. Isobel was pressed into the stool and the sister in question said nothing as she ran her long fingers through Isobel’s long, ginger locks. She heard the sudden _shkt_ of scissors as her hair was pulled taut. As she opened her mouth to protest, the scissors snapped closed and her hair fell loosely back against her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she knew there was no point in trying to resist.

Later, Isobel’s fingers scratched at her shorn scalp. Where once beautiful, never-been-cut tresses had been was now scratchy hair that could be no longer than an inch. She’d been steered into the main room and told to wait. So she stood in the middle of the cold chantry, her shoulders slumping forward, for enough time for the twelve-hour tapers to burn a quarter of their way down. Her legs ached, her feet burned from the pressure of thick, shapeless boots. Mostly, Isobel just wanted to sleep for the rest of her life.

There was a creak as the door to the Grand Cleric’s chambers opened. The Cleric herself, an old and sour-faced woman approached to stand in front of Isobel. Two, equally sour-faced Mothers flanked her.

“Hello, Child.”

“Grand Cleric,” Isobel’s voice creaked.

“You know why you are here, of course?”

Isobel tried to lick her dried lips to speak, but her mouth was too dry. She felt her lips pull, crack and tear as she answered, “I have sinned.”

“And brought shame upon your family and ruin upon yourself,” the Cleric added sternly. She turned over her shoulder to one of the Mothers and nodded. The Mother reached into her robe to pull out a plain, wooden box. The Cleric took it, her withered hands running along the wood grain. She handed it to Isobel and commanded, “Open it.”

Isobel’s fingers shook as she pulled open the lid. Inside the box was a brooch, a single purple harebell. New tears pricked at Isobel’s eyes as the Cleric took the box back from her, regarding it with some mixture of reverence and distaste.

“Do you know the story of The Harebell, child?”

“I know it is worn by those who seek forgiveness from Andraste and the Maker.”

“Aye, you are not wrong. But, d’you know why?”

Isobel shook her head.

The Cleric narrowed her eyes. “They say that after our Lady was burned at the stake and returned to the Maker’s side, that Maferath tried to lead his tribe. But, after Hessarian saw the Maker’s light and converted, he revealed Maferath’s betrayal to the world. The Betrayer, fearing for his own life, fled and feared the retribution of the people. He fled, deep into the wilds and made a shelter in side of a cave on a hillside of the greenest grass he’d ever seen. He slept in that cave, full of dreams of the bride he’d betrayed. The next morning as he rose, the hillside was covered in vivid purple harebells. When he investigated further, he realized the flowers had grown in a path that led straight through to him. He fled again, fearing the wrath of the Faithful.

“He ventured ten leagues away from that cave and found a small hut in a forest clearing. He camped there, once again sleeping fitfully and full of dreams of our Lady’s pyre. The next morning, he awoke to discover that in the night another crop of the brightest purple harebells had sprouted and blossomed in a ring around the cabin.

“Now, Maferath was convinced that the harebells were a sign from his betrayed bride that she was leading her followers on a quest of vengeance from the Maker’s kingdom. Once again, he fled and finally made camp in a lean-to on a rocky beach. He was convinced that no flowers would find themselves there. Once again, he slept and once again, he was full of nightmares. The next morning, d’you know what he saw?”

Isobel swallowed. “Harebells.”

“No, child. Standing at his doorstep were his three sons, Isorath, Evrion and Verald. Though Andraste was not their mother by blood, she had raised them and loved them as her own. They captured their father and brought him back to his tribe for his execution. After they cut him down, they say that harebells sprung up where his blood had spilled and indeed, they grew where his ashes were scattered as well. The harebell is not a symbol of vengeance, or hatred, instead, it means grief and humility, forgiveness for one’s sins. In the end, Andraste forgave her mortal husband. And you, child, must also seek Her forgiveness. For, you have gone against the Maker’s will and the teachings of our most beloved prophet.”

The Grand Cleric reached into the box and plucked the brooch between her wrinkled fingers. She reached across the gap between them and placed the harebell on Isobel’s chest as she recited:

_“And let it be known that it is man who holds fire in his breast_   
_And it is woman who is still and peaceful as water_   
_Only she can quench the destruction and slake his thirst for violence_   
_She must be as Andraste, and have a steady heart_   
_And the patience to withstand the fervor of two husbands, one of flesh and the other divine light._

Isobel shook, tears streaming down her face and falling steadily on her robe or gliding into her partially open mouth. She’d heard the passage, the first verse of the Canticle of Virtue, her entire life; but, never before had the verse sounded so… final. The Grand Cleric dropped her hands as the two Mothers moved in closer. As one, they continued:

_“So she, woman, who marries not the Maker but a man of skin and blood_   
_Must be pure in nature, so that she can ease his heart without corruption_   
_As Andraste had been purified in her pyre_   
_And became immaculate once again._

“In the Maker’s name, we pray,” the Grand Cleric concluded.

“What- what happens now?” Isobel asked, her voice small and so, so tired.

“The Mothers and I are in agreement that it would be an unkindness to your beloved parents if you were to remain in Ostwick, so we have decided that the best place for you to serve the Maker and to find forgiveness is in the Ostwick Circle Chantry. Perhaps when you are among the other poor souls, you’ll understand how much of a gift you threw back into the Maker’s face.” The Cleric eyed her up and down, her beady eyes full of distaste. “Go with Mother Leah, she has some chores for you to do before you go to sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll leave at first light for Tylus Fortress.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Haring, 9:28 Dragon - Four Days Later**

Ostwick housed its circle in a huge, ancient fortress on the coast; Tylus fortress had been built in the seventh age, 7:56 to be exact, to withstand the might of the invading Qunari. They new little about the might of the Qunari horde, save for their powerful dreadnoughts and the stories about the smokeless black powder they used and the fortress had been designed with absolutely no outer weak points. Tylus had no windows and no visible outer doors, there was only stone. The entrance to the fortress was accessible only by an underground tunnel, which extended over a mile away with an entrance guarded by a host of Templars. The only other opening was an escape hatch on the roof and only Templars and Chantry had access to it.

For Isobel, being escorted by two stern-faced Mothers down that long tunnel was like walking to her execution. She was handed over to the circle’s Revered Mother much in the manner as one would transfer a prisoner to a new cell. The Revered Mother, a septuagenarian named Malin, was the exact sort of woman one would expect to be presiding over a circle chantry. She was one of the old guard, the sort of traditionalist who believed that sparing the rod spoiled the mages and her distaste for mages was perhaps only matched by her utter contempt for harebells.

When Isobel arrived, the Revered Mother had her stand in the middle of the chantry - much like the Grand Cleric - while she laid out the rules for Isobel’s new life explicitly. She had to scrub the chantry floor every other day; replace the candles daily and clean any of the dripped wax up as it happened; she had to recite the canticles of Forgiveness and Virtue twenty times a day, each; and, she had to be at Mother Malin’s disposal whenever it was required.

After cleaning the altar, polishing the Andraste statue and chipping off the dripped wax off of the devotional area, Isobel was shown to her room. Naturally, it was barely more than a closet - perhaps it had been a closet at one point - with just enough room for her bed, which was set up horizontally and back against the far wall, and a lowboy with a small basin and a copy of the Chant resting on top. The Revered Mother and the two other Sisters of the Chantry had their own quarters so that Isobel could not corrupt the virtuous, as the Revered Mother explained. Stepping into that tiny nook was simultaneously humiliating, humbling and strangely, comforting. While being exiled away because she was treated as some sort of infectious plague was upsetting, it was somehow nice to have a small space to herself where she could finally lay her burdens for a few hours every day.

The following morning Isobel was alone in the Chantry scrubbing the floor when the door opened and shut. She looked up to see a young man, a mage, staring at her. Isobel tried to ignore him, turning her head away and going back to her scrubbing. She’d feared that once the news of the arrival of a harebell had hit the inhabitants of the fortress that she’d become some sort of an attraction to come and gawk at. The young mage didn’t leave, instead he came closer and Isobel could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on her. Impatiently, she threw her scrub brush back into the bucket and rested back on her knees.

“Can I help you?”

It was then that she finally _looked_ at the man. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than her, with shaggy ginger hair and warm hazel eyes. She felt her lips part in awe, as she realized there was something familiar about him. All at once, it hit her.

“Maxwell?”

His face broke out into a grin. “Isobel. I didn’t think you’d know me.”

She jumped to her feet, stumbling on her long robe as she did so. Isobel had early memories of a boy, whom she believed was her brother who could call fire between his fingers and would heal her cuts and bruises before he disappeared with nary a word from her parents. Finally after pestering Camille for ages about the boy in her memories she never knew, she was told that he was her elder brother, and that he had been sent to the Circle to the great shame of their family. She’d been obsessed for weeks afterwards, poking and prodding at Nan and their older servants for any information on her missing brother until Nan finally gave her his name to keep her quiet.

“When I was six, we stole Antivan meringues from the kitchen and you toasted mine with your fingers.”

“You remember me?” he asked, his eyes widening. “You were so young when I was taken.”

Her hand flew to her mouth as tears pricked at her eyes. It was so much, too much, to see such a figment from her memories come to life. In her grief over Elijah and her new life, a part of her had forgotten that Maxwell was at the Ostwick Circle. The part of her that did remember had assumed that he, like the rest of their family would want nothing to do with her. His eyes were light, expressive as he studied her face. But as his gaze drifted down to the flower pinned on her chest, Isobel felt a knot of icy dread form in her stomach.

“We don’t get a lot of news from Ostwick, but the fact that my sister was coming here as a Harebell definitely made it to my ears.”

“Maxwell, I-” she began.

“I also heard that you were betrothed to Elijah Reynauld who had since married someone else,” he said, cutting her off. After a moment he sighed. “I say, fuck ‘em.”

Isobel sputtered, the tears in her eyes finally falling and running down her cheeks. A moment later, Maxwell threw his arms around her and hauled her close to him. He rubbed her back soothingly and told her - the only person so far to do so - that everything would be all right.

**Wintermarch, 9:29 Dragon**

Isobel finished reciting her verses and pressed her book of the Chant closed. After saying another quick, silent prayer to Andraste to watch over her family, Isobel shifted her robes around herself so that she could rise from her kneeling position and not rip the cloth in the process. Without warning two, thick arms wrapped themselves around her chest and hoisted her against someone’s impossibly solid form. She tried to shriek, but a gloved hand moved to cover her mouth. She bit as hard as she could, but her teeth couldn’t break through the thick leather gloves. She was picked up into the air, her legs kicking out in front of her.

“Oh, tell Killian that she’s a fighter!” a deep voice rasped in her ear. “There now, sweetheart. We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

She continued to struggle, her mind reeling and unable to focus on just one single thing. Her thoughts flitted, asking herself tens of thousands of questions in rapid succession - Who are these people? What can I do to fight back? Where is the Revered Mother? Why is this happening? What are they going to do to me?- like a volley of scattered arrows. The arms set her back on her feet and turned her in place so that she came face to face with a man she recognized as a Templar, though he was just dressed in his gambeson and a pair of linen trousers. He danced his gloved fingers down her shoulder and flicked at the magically preserved flower at her chest.

“I asked around about you, Isobel Trevelyan,” he said, his voice dripping with forced charm. “You should hear the things they say about you.”

Isobel took a step back from him, only to collide with another Templar. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her middle, his hands pressed against her stomach. She was silent, her voice stolen from her by her fear, as she struggled in his grasp.

“What in the Maker’s name is going on here?” a booming voice echoed across the stone. The Templar’s mirth died instantly, even Isobel ceased her struggling to turn towards the source of the noise. Standing just inside the Chantry room was the stony-faced Revered Mother Malin. “You will all cease this foolishness in the Maker’s house!” she cried as she strode across the Chantry towards them.

The man holding Isobel let go immediately and, Isobel, being unprepared collapsed in a heap to the floor. The Mother stood over her, milky eyes piercing into her as the elder spoke, “I am beyond appalled at your behavior, Harebell. You are given to us to repent your sins and instead, you seek out these men in an attempt to lead them astray. Does your scarlet heart have no sense of shame, of decency?”

Isobel’s cheeks flushed red as she felt a hand of ice curl around her spine. “But, your Reverence, I-”

“I don’t want your excuses, girl. Now get up. Apologize to these noble men and then I want to see you scrub this entire Chantry floor before daybreak.”

Isobel gasped, tears pricking at her eyes. She could scrub the floor, Maker she could scrub the entire tower with her toothbrush, but why did she have to apologize? The Templar’s exchanged grins as Isobel squeezed her eyes shut to hold back her tears. Softly, she said, “I apologize, noble Knights in the Maker’s service, for… my behavior.”

The first Templar who grabbed her coughed to hide his laugh before replying, “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, Isobel.”

Her shoulders slumped as she watched the Templars file out of the Chantry. With a heavy heart, she stepped around the glaring Revered Mother to fetch a scrub bucket. After that, Isobel quickly learned to ensure that she finished her required prayers and meditations while the Chantry was still occupied. The nights in which she was forced to remain behind, usually to clean, she made sure to do so on nights when the Templars who harassed her had night duty watching the mages. She was lucky, she supposed. She’d never let them catch her alone again, though they still sometimes managed a rogue touch here and there over the years. The first time she’d tried to report that one of the Knights had pinched her backside to the Revered Mother, Isobel had the backs of her legs caned for lying. She knew she was luckier than most, from the stories Maxwell had passed her way.

Of course, it wasn’t just the Templars who saw the harebell as some sort of free license. The mages, while more discreet, could be just as bad… at least, until Isobel’s brother found out. Maxwell earned himself a week in solitary for getting into a fistfight with a mage who bragged in the dormitories that he was going to visit Isobel’s rooms that night. After that, most of the mages were content to leave Isobel alone.

**Kingsway, 9:40 Dragon**

“ _Though I, the lowest of low_  
Am not worthy to sit at your golden feet,  
I beg you, my Maker, that you may  
Show me the path I must take  
For I seek your forgiveness  
As I have sinned and brought shame upon myself”

Isobel sighed, snapping the book of verses shut with a dull thud. The book was a prop, at best; she’d recited the verses of the Canticle of Forgiveness twenty times a day for the past eleven years and she could recite it backwards and in Orlesian. The first few weeks of living as a Harebell, the words had been full of meaning; she’d desperately believed in the forgiveness of the Maker and Andraste. Now, the verses were sounds that her mouth formed on command, empty of all significance. If there was forgiveness to be had, she would never see it while her heart still beat.

A sound from behind her, that telltale clank of silverite armor, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Isobel swallowed and slowly rose from her position, kneeling in front of the altar. She looked over her shoulder first and there was no mistaking that glint of the Chantry candles reflecting in the shining Templar armor. She turned completely, her face carefully schooled passive as the harebell pinned to her chest seemed to take on the weight of the world. Three Knights stood behind her, their helmets obscuring their faces. She tried to keep her nerves calm, but knew that if the Templars were looking for her, there was nothing good to be gained. Either something had happened to her brother or the Knights had come to harass her.

“Your brother’s a Robe, yeah?” one of them asked, at last. His voice was muffled behind the wall of metal covering his face.

Isobel’s heart stuttered. “Has something happened to my brother?”

“Not yet,” another answered slyly.

Her head snapped in his direction. “What’s going on here?”

As if on cue, a scream echoed across the stone of the tower. Without a single surface to break the sound, it was impossible to tell exactly which direction the cry had come from. Isobel started, backing away from the Templars. Another Templar, his face just as obscured as the others, appeared in the Chantry door and closed the heavy wooden thing behind him. They stalked towards her as she continued to creep backwards, until her back collided with the altar.

“What do you want?” she hissed at them through her teeth.

They said nothing as they continued to menace her, finally Isobel felt behind her on the surface of the altar for something, anything to use against them. Her hands collided with a pair of scissors and a small knife used to trim down the candles. She held them forward in front of her, her hands surprisingly steady. A Templar stepped forward as she slashed the air in front of her. He jumped back a little bit, chuckling.

“Careful, Killian, you know she bites.”

The infamous Killian just chuckled and drew his blade. Isobel knew she should be afraid, she knew that she should surrender and hope the Templars were just trying to scare her. But, as another scream sounded somewhere in the fortress, Isobel felt… _nothing_. There was no fear chilling her veins, there was no dread…just nothing. She had nothing to live for but herself. For some, such feelings may have been the foundation of defeat, but for Isobel, who’d spent so many years full of regret and anxiety about her fate it was _freeing_.

No doubt the last thing the Templars expected was for Isobel to launch herself at them, swinging her improvised weapons wildly. Her shoulder collided with Killian, catching him off guard and sending him tumbling back. The next Templar she sliced at with the scissors, somehow managing to slide the makeshift blade between the plates of his armor. He screamed just as the Templar to her left burst into flames. Isobel jumped back and looked towards the door to see Maxwell standing in the doorway, his arms outstretched with fire erupting from his fingertips. His robes were cut and he had an oozing gash on his cheek. Isobel picked up one of the discarded weapons from the floor and moved to stand over Killian.

“They’re trying to annul the tower,” Maxwell said at last. “They’re doing it without the Rite and they don’t care who argues with them. I just stepped over the body of the Revered mother to find you.”

“Andraste’s Ass,” she swore.

“Is he dead?” Maxwell asked, nodding towards the prone Templar at her feet.

Isobel crouched over Killian’s form, poking him with the tip of the sword. “He must have hit his head on the floor.”

“Let’s tie him up.”

“Easier to just kill him,” she said, raising the blade.

“No!” Maxwell grabbed her arm. “If you do that, you’re no better than them.”

Isobel wrenched her arm away, glaring at her brother. “These men treated me like nothing! They thought they could put their hands all over me,” she snarled. She stood and kicked Killian as hard as she could in the ribs. “And the Revered mother,” she started, kicking him again. “Thought that _I_ -” **kick** “-should apologize to _him_.” **kick** “for years!”

“I know, Is, but now is not the time. We have to help the others.”

Her shoulders slumped. In a small voice, she murmured, “Forgiveness is a lie, Max.”

 

**Wintermarch, 9:41 Dragon**

Isobel came to inside of a small, cold, musty cell. She shivered as the freezing stone cut through her thin chantry robes to chill her to the bone. She tried to reach up to rub her tired eyes, but realized as she couldn’t move her arms independently that she had been manacled. Her mouth fell open, a cry for help dying on her tongue as her brain caught up and she realized… she had no idea where she was or how she got there. The harebell weighed heavy on her robes, which she’d donned only for the conclave at the request of the other mages. Apparently their cause of freedom didn’t extend to her, and they’d hoped that seeing her in her ‘proper place’ would bolster the Chantry into accepting their demands.

The last thing she remembered had been a warm hand, Maxwell’s hand, on her shoulder. _“We’ll make peace, Is,”_ he’d said.

 _“Doubtful when neither Lucius or Fiona could be bothered to attend_ their _peace talks,”_ she’d sniped.

Her bad attitude had only made him smile, such a carefree and easygoing gesture. It had always struck Isobel as amazing that after being cooped up in the windowless fortress Ostwick called a tower, that her brother could still be so cheerful.

As her brain caught up to the rest of her body, she realized that her hand felt as if it was being held over an open flame. As she looked down at it, her palm erupted in green light, prompting a shriek to rip its way out of her throat.

“Max!” she wailed. “Max, where are you?”

* * *

She’d been spat on her first time walking through Haven, when Cassandra had bound her in rope and made a great show of taking her to the site of the Most Holy’s death. The exercise had been meant to intimidate her, scare her into admitting her involvement in the destruction. Eleven years in the Chantry as a Harebell and two years in the mage rebellion hadn’t made Isobel soft and easy to manipulate, not even being led like a prize through the throng of people was anything new to Isobel.

The hardest part of the entire spectacle had been learning that Max was gone. After that, nothing else mattered.

She’d taught herself dagger play during her time with the rebel mages. She knew a little archery, mostly because it was believed that such sports taught young ladies grace and control. Her mother had never permitted her to truly study any sort of martial art as a girl, but having the Templars come at her with swords at Tylus had shown her the necessity of learning how to defend herself. Perhaps it wasn’t the most dignified art, as it was commonly associated with cutpurses and assassins. Yet, Isobel liked the quietness of using daggers; she liked being underestimated, hiding her weapons on her person until threatened. She wasn’t by any means an expert, but she learned how to find the weak spots in Templar armor and she learned how to send a sword flying from a man’s arm. One mage, who’d been adept at escaping from his Circle even taught her the finer points of lock picking.

Of course, such skills weren’t truly valuable against fighting demons. Still, she’d vowed a long time ago that she would never again let herself be dependent on others for safety and though it made Cassandra threaten her at first, Isobel picked up a bow and a set of daggers and joined in the fight.

Isobel wasn’t about to take the fall for the Divine’s death, no matter how desperately the remaining members of the clergy seemed to want to pin it on her. In her mind, Chancellor Roderick was no more severe than Revered Mother Malin. He was a traditionalist, a fatalist when it came to the Maker and his forgiveness and above all, a member of the chantry who just wanted to see Isobel suffer; truth be told, he still couldn’t hold a candle to the draconian Mother. He sputtered and he threatened her with death, but the wound of losing Max, of seeing the sky ripped open and knowing that somehow the Maker chose _her_ to survive made his pontificating roll off her like it was nothing.

Cassandra standing up for her had been a surprise, but Isobel said nothing as she simply regarded the Seeker. The two strangers on either side of her, one a dwarf and one an elf, both said nothing and Isobel figured it best to follow their example. She chose to go straight through with the foolish notion that perhaps they’d find survivors in the wreckage and just maybe, Maxwell was still alive after all.

She didn’t encounter her brother on the battlefield on her way to the center of the conclave. Instead, she met the first person in thirteen years whose eyes didn’t linger on the flower pinned to her chest. He was a Templar, such things were impossible to hide. It was easy to see he’d left the order, as carried himself like a Templar, spoke like a Templar but he didn’t _act_ like a Templar. There wasn’t much time to reflect on this odd new acquaintance, though the memory of the way his eyes remained locked on herself embedded itself into her mind.

* * *

The second time Isobel walked through Haven, there was silence. People looked at her with awe, prayed to her as if she was their holy deliverer. They said the Maker worked in mysterious ways and in some aspects, Isobel supposed they were right. How else could it be explained that in the course of a single afternoon, she’d gone from being the hated, murderous whore who killed the most holy woman in all of Thedas to the apparent Herald of Andraste herself?

The mark on her hand ached, flaring up with green fire as she shut the door to the chantry behind her. She hated it already. It was another thing, another sign that she was to be singled out. Cassandra asked about the mark as she led Isobel to the war room. The change in the woman’s demeanor was glaring, but Isobel figured she couldn’t hold it against the Seeker. It was clear that the Divine was important to her, in more ways than as the figurehead of her religion.

She was introduced to the war room, the only new face being the Antivan Ambassador. The advisors all regarded her warmly, which made Isobel nervous. No one was simply ‘nice’ to her; at best, she was tolerated. In the end, she had to assume their kindness was due to the still-painful green mark on her hand. Perhaps it should have made her sad, or angry but in truth, she’d learned the value of knowing exactly where her place was years ago. Josephine and Leliana were stiff around her, with Josephine’s eyes snapping to the flower when she seemed to think Isobel wasn’t looking. Leliana, Isobel assumed, had some latent Chantry beliefs from her time spent as a lay sister. Oddly it was the Templar, Cullen, who offered her a smile and still maintained eye contact with her. In turn, Isobel found herself staring at Cullen out of the corner of her eye.

People always treated her like some other thing than a woman, a Thedosian or a reluctant Andrastrian. Yet this man, Cullen, had smiled warmly at her as if she were just another ordinary person. The warmth of his smile was something that she took and buried deep within herself and Isobel found herself calling on it regularly as she traveled through the Hinterlands for the Inquisition.

Truth be told, she rather enjoyed the time she spent in the Ferelden wilds. Focusing on helping others allowed her to step away from the grief of losing her brother and the horror of being the sole survivor of such a devastating event. When she wore her leathers and carried her daggers and bow, no one knew her as Isobel Trevelyan. To the people of the Hinterlands, she was simply the nice Inquisition agent who brought them blankets and ram’s meat and drove off the bandits. To be so overlooked was a blessing, and Isobel rather enjoyed listening to Varric’s stories or off-handed comments about the world around them. Solas made Haven bearable, he offered a quiet place for discussion with a person who was just as reviled by the Chantry as she. Though she was no mage, she’d lived among them for so long that Solas was like being home again. Cassandra was a good woman and once she had decided that Isobel was not guilty, she became one of her staunchest allies. Yet, the scent of the chantry wafted off of the Seeker and at times, Isobel had a difficult time separating the woman from the religion. She knew that she could not have asked for finer company during her early travels.

Val Royeaux had been a rude awakening, a cruel reminder that no matter how many good deeds were credited to her name, Isobel Trevelyan would always be the girl who couldn’t keep her legs shut. It didn’t bother her to have women in Chantry robes screaming at her - truthfully, that only made her homesick - what had hurt was the way Mother Hevara had denounced her so vitriolically:

 _“Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste, claiming to rise where our beloved fell! We say this is a false prophet! The maker would send no_ whore _in our hour of need!”_

All Isobel could do was shake her head and curse herself for letting herself get drawn into the whole affair. She’d softened herself to the praise that had been heaped upon her in the Hinterlands and Haven and she’d forgotten all too well what the outside world _really_ thought of her. She’d tried to argue that all she wanted was help to close the Breach and Cassandra had even backed her up, but the Revered Mother Hevara would have none of it. Even after the Lord Seeker had assaulted her and taken his Templars away to parts unknown, Hevara still would not listen to a word she had to say. It was a cruel, but needed reminder for Isobel. No matter the amount of good she did with her name and with her role in the Inquisition, no one would ever look beyond the foolish choices of a young girl who made the mistake of being too naive and too trusting with her heart.

It only made matters worse back at Haven, when she faced the panel of advisors with shame burning her cheeks. Isobel knew logically that they all were aware of her reputation, after all, Chancellor Roderick had been all too gleeful to point out her disgraced status. Yet, never before had the Inquisition faced true opposition because of her history. Still, the former Templar’s smile never turned cruel and Cassandra told her that the Inquisition couldn’t function without her. For reasons beyond Isobel’s comprehension, the Inquisition stuck by her side.

She had to repay the favor, it was only proper…only right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reputation has turned into a massive undertaking. More than I had originally anticipated. For me, I figured it would be 10-20k and done. But this is well on its way to a full size novel. I've been very stressed about this piece, and I I'll leave more of the details of that in the post on my tumblr, which is [here](https://dear-miss-adair.tumblr.com/post/152514184687/about-reputation).
> 
> Essentially, Reputation will now be a chaptered fic. This will allow me to write out updates at a more continuous pace. This helps me a lot. Because this was not meant to be a chaptered fic, the fic has needed a little bit of polish. So, the first two chapters have been rewritten. _you will need to reread them to know what's happening_
> 
> Thank you everyone for being so patient with me. It means so much.

**Bloomingtide, 9:41 Dragon**

The memory of Haven still burned fresh in Isobel’s mind. It had been a month and still she would wake up in the middle of the night, her sheets soaked with sweat and the pungent stench of burning flesh in her nostrils. In her dreams she saw Corypheus looming over Haven like a God and with a single swipe of his hand, wipe the entire village and its populace off the map. She could only watch as Corypheus sent his pet to scoop up people in its claws. Most nights it was Cullen and Isobel was forced to watch as his kind smile turned into a bitter grimace and finally, nothing but slack muscles covered with cold skin. 

Isobel hadn’t expected to survive the encounter with Corypheus and she had most definitely not expected to survive him _and_ an avalanche. Her memories of that night were spotty. She remembered the encounter with Corypheus in absolute stunning detail. She could remember the trebuchet and the avalanche but she could also remember a cave and her vision blurring as she hit her head when she landed. There were odd bits of memories of her trekking out through the snow and wilderness. She could remember that there had been lights in the distance and a voice reaching out to her in the haze. Someone had lifted her into a pair of strong arms and carried her through the snow. There was the sensation of soft leather against her cheek and the jarring rock of being carried across uneven terrain. Then, she was waking up to the sounds of her advisors arguing at their Frostback camp. 

Finding Skyhold had been a Makersend and she’d be forever grateful to Solas for showing her the way, even if he’d refused to take the credit. Compared to Tylus Fortress, Skyhold was the Golden Kingdom. Her quarters alone were larger than the entire Chantry at the Circle. 

She rose from her soft bed and stretched out her stiff muscles. Her bare feet slapped against the stone as she moved to stand in one of the beams of sunlight streaming in through her window. She felt a small smile sneak its way on to her lips as the sun warmed her skin. After Tylus, Isobel had learned to appreciate the pleasure of sunlight shining against her flesh. Sufficiently warm, Isobel opened her eyes fully and stole a quick peek around her massive accommodations. When she thought about it, it still made her mind boggle that, for some reason Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine and Cullen had decided to make _her_ the head of the Inquisition. She could only imagine the fits her appointment had sent the Chantry and, not to mention, her family into. Her parents had to be absolutely beside themselves. Of course as naive as she had been as a girl, as a woman Trevelyan was no fool. For whatever good the advisers had found within her, she knew it was severely tempered by her position in polite society. She’d done a lot of good in the Hinterlands and The Mark had closed so many portals, but her situation had to offer more hindrances than benefits.

But, those were thoughts best left laid to rest until they became necessary to consider. 

She dressed quickly but as she was buttoning up the last few buttons on her coat, her eyes drifted across her old Chantry robes. Isobel really wasn’t sure why she kept them. They were torn, a little bloody, very dirty and full of terrible memories. She ripped her gaze away from the fabric, made her way downstairs, and out into the main hall. There was a hush amongst the gathering nobles as she stepped out into the hall, as there always was. Isobel held her head high, as always and made her way towards the war room. 

The sounds of raised voices drifted through the cracks in the wood. She knew she shouldn’t stop to eavesdrop, but still Isobel found herself leaning against the door and straining to hear. 

“Commander, you are being ridiculous.”

Isobel blinked. Was that Madame Vivienne speaking?

“I’m ridiculous?” he replied incredulously. “She’s saving the entire world from ruin and you’re concerned for the appearance of the Inquisition?”

“The Inquisitor is a lovely girl, of course and there is no argument on all the good she’s done for the world-”

“Will never outweigh the indiscretions of youth; is that what you’re saying, Madam Vivienne?”

Isobel clenched her eyes shut and forced herself to breathe as she felt her heart begin to race and her world grow hazy. It wouldn’t do to have a panic attack right outside the war room doors. She rose to her full height and took a deep breath. “You are the Inquisitor. You’re not a little girl any more and words only have the power you give them,” she whispered softly to herself. Sighing, she nodded once and took the door latch in hand. She pushed the heavy wooden door open and watched as all the arguments in the room died as all eyes snapped to her. “Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice surprisingly strong. 

“Inquisitor, we must make our move to protect Celene,” Leliana spoke up, at last. “There is some debate over how we should proceed.”

“Oh? What debate is that?” Isobel asked.

Vivienne crossed her arms over her chest as she spoke, her voice never losing its formal edge: “There is no denying that you have done a world of good with the Inquisition, Inquisitor. However, the Orlesian court is not the same as Ferelden or even the Marches. You and the Inquisition will need the approval of the Orlesian Court and-”

“And I’m not even fit to lick their boots, yes, I know,” Isobel interrupted. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I apologize; you are, of course quite correct. Thank you, Madame Vivienne, I shall consider your words carefully.”

The regal woman bent her neck respectfully towards Isobel before regarding Cullen with a look of barely disguised disdain as she turned to leave the room. When the door clattered shut behind the First Enchanter, Isobel sighed and dropped her hand from her face. “I really only see one course of action: I must resign my position.”

“What?” Cullen hissed. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. This is only the beginning of our obstacles. My…reputation will only hinder the Inquisition. I should resign. Maker, I should never even have been given the appointment in the first place. Let Cassandra be Inquisitor. I can leave Skyhold and search for rifts that need to be closed.”

“If I may,” Josephine interjected. “I believe I have a solution. We just have to marry you.”

“Marry me?” Isobel repeated.

Isobel watched as Leliana brightened, moving to stand next to Josephine. “Yes, we just have to find you a suitable person. They must have a good character, a title of some sort, but will understand that this is merely a business arrangement and you are free to do your Inquisition duties.”

“There’s not a single man in Thedas who would stoop to marry me!”

“I will.”

* * *

“Wait, what?” The Inquisitor asked, her voice harsh and strained in her throat. 

“I will marry you.”

“A splendid idea,” Leliana said. 

“What? No! I could never ask you to do that.”

“It’s a good idea, Inquisitor. Commander Cullen is respectable, is titled within the Inquisition and who else would understand your need to do your duties as Inquisitor?” Josephine added, tapping the feathered end of her quill against her lips as she spoke. She paused for a moment before she added, “we should do the wedding as soon as possible.”

“Cullen,” The Inquisitor murmured. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

“The Inquisition needs you,” he countered aloud as his mind screamed: ‘ _I need you_ ’.

“There is no need for you to give your entire life to the Inquisition,” the Inquisitor argued feebly. “You already do so much. I can’t burden you with this as well.”

He tried to ignore the little jolt of ice in his chest and the soft voice that whispered _she doesn’t want you; she’ll never want you in his ear_. Swallowing, Cullen set his jaw and hoped his voice would remain even and strong: “you are the Inquisition, Lady Trevelyan. I would have this no other way.” He turned his gaze from her before he had the chance to betray the calm and businesslike exterior he’d carefully constructed.

“We could have Mother Giselle perform the ceremony later tonight.”

“No,” Cullen said quickly, causing the three women to snap their heads in his direction. “If we are to do this, it should be done properly. We need to invite our families, have a real wedding.”

Trevelyan snorted. “You may invite yours if you wish, I however, have no family.”

“Yes, that is just the thing we shall do,” Josephine said quickly. “After all, this must appear to be a real marriage from all points of view.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“The Chantry will not recognize your marriage if it is not considered a true sacred vow between you and the Commander, Inquisitor. There must be no doubt that this is either a marriage of love or a marriage of arrangement and not simply a marriage to, erm-” she looked to Leliana for help. 

“Legitimize yourself and lose your status as a Harebell.”

Once again, Trevelyan glanced at Cullen. “And you’re, fine with this?”

He set his jaw and squared his shoulders, attempting to look every bit the Commander he could muster even as his heart was hammering wildly in his chest from the gravity such monumental decisions. “I am.”

She sighed, “fine. I wouldn’t bother with my family, but if you want to invite yours,” she waved her hands dismissively. “Do what you will. Josephine, I assume you’ll want to handle the particulars?”

The Ambassador nodded and Cullen noted that she kept her face carefully neutral. 

“All right,” Trevelyan continued. “I trust you’ll inform me of anything I need to do. We can call this meeting adjourned for now.”

As the Inquisitor turned to leave, her eyes caught his and Cullen felt his heart skip a single beat as she gave him a nearly imperceptible nod before fleeing the room. When the door clicked shut behind her, Josephine exhaled sharply and slumped against the table ever so lightly. 

“You’d think we were sending her to her death!” the Antivan exclaimed before she looked up and caught Cullen’s glance. Her mouth snapped shut as a flush rose on her cheeks. “Oh, my apologies, Commander. You are making a wonderful sacrifice. I mean, not that the Inquisitor isn’t a lovely woman, its only that-”

Cullen held up a gloved hand to stop the flow of the words gushing from the Ambassador’s mouth. “I understand what you mean, Josephine. If the Inquisitor had been given the luxury of choice, I’m sure that she would have preferred something far different than this.” He cleared his throat, wishing to end the conversation’s sudden turn into even more unpleasant territory. “I wish to write my family myself. I’ll have the letters drafted this afternoon.”

He turned on his heel, bidding the two remaining women good day over his shoulder and left the room. As he turned, he caught a brief glance exchanged between the two of them.

Cullen forced his legs to move and focused on the way his boots thudded against the stone floor of the hall, the way the mountain wind came pouring through the cracks in the stone walls and the way that Josephine’s office always smelled of spices from the kitchen, anything to calm his chaotic mind until he could get into the privacy of his office. When he entered the main hall, he kept his gaze forward, blinding himself to the goings on around him and shut his ears to the sounds of Orlesian gossips saying Maker knew what about the Inquisitor. Immediately, his brain screamed _you’re going to marry Her, you’re marrying the Inquisitor_ ; he cleared his throat, and pushed everything that threatened to bubble up deep down within him as he turned to go into the library. Cullen nodded to Solas, but didn’t bother to see if the man had even noticed his presence. He recited canticles to himself as he passed along the stone walkway that connected the main part of the castle to the battlements. The door to his office opened and after a cursory glance to ensure no one was inside waiting for him, Cullen closed the door and pressed his hands against the ancient wood, allowing his body to sag a little. He braced himself against the surface as he finally let his control slip. 

All at once, blood rushed in his ears as he felt his chest tighten and expand and his stomach both clench and flutter all at once. Had he really just agreed to marry the Inquisitor as if he were simply agreeing to eat fish for dinner? He should be more bothered by the fact that he had made a life-altering choice on a whim, but he was more bothered by the fact that he felt so at peace with the outcome. It was a good decision, he knew that much. After all, he could never be the sort of man worthy of her but if he could do this one simple thing for her, make this one sacrifice then by the Maker; he had done right by her. 

Of course he knew of her Reputation. Leliana had informed him of enough of the Inquisitor’s past for him to have a vague understanding that the woman, whom the Chantry had cast aside, had been nothing more than a girl when her fate had been decided. Perhaps it was yet another sin to his name, but it angered him, the idea that the actions of one’s youth would so determine the entire course of their life. Was there no chance for redemption? Maker, there had to be. If not even the Herald of Andraste could find redemption, then what hope would he ever have? 

They would all ask him, of course, if he minded being married to someone ‘like her’; to them, that would be the all-important question. Even now, unmarried, he heard all too much of ‘do you know what they said about her?’ or ‘haven’t you heard what she did?’ from the preening nobles that gathered in the Inquisition, all struggling to find balance between ass-kissing the woman who’d saved all their lives and condemning the woman the chantry said was a- Maker, but he just couldn’t say those words; especially not to her…never to her. From where he stood, the only reason that the Inquisitor had such a reputation was because her betrothed saw an opportunity to marry into a better position. Perhaps it was that he was so thoroughly Fereldan and a common one at that but Cullen cared little for the idea of marrying for alliances and connections. Fereldans, at least common ones, married for love, life was too short and too cruel to not be with someone you cared for and desired. 

Of course, the Inquisitor didn’t love him and she would never want him as a wife desires a husband. Though, the most forbidden side of his mind allowed the lurid imagery of early morning lovemaking to enter his mind. Isobel lying naked in their bed, reaching for him and his name falling from her lips with as much reverence as a prayer….

He shook himself. He would not, no; he could not allow himself to even entertain such things. It wasn’t right and he would not treat her so poorly. He would marry her, for her, but he would never take her or touch her and when she yearned for companionship, as all people do, he would look away and let her be happy. By the Maker, he could do that much.

* * *

Gossip traveled fast, as it always does, and before the official announcement of their engagement, Skyhold was already abuzz with the news that Cullen and the Inquisitor were to be wed. The inner circle were gracious enough to pretend to be shocked when the Inquisitor gave them the news. As he stood near the Inquisitor, Cullen watched her speak. It had been a fortnight since the decision had been made and he’d wanted to speak with her about the future, and their life together. But, the Inquisitor seemed to be avoiding him; for which, of course, he could hardly blame her. He was terrified himself, but wanted to reassure her that he would consider the title of ‘Husband’ as simply an addition to ‘Commander’ and that at most, he hoped they could be friends. Yet, the only moments he saw the Inquisitor were during strategy meetings in the war room and it hardly seemed appropriate to bring up their pending nuptials there.

But, the inner-circle had to be told and the Inquisitor had elected to simply gather them all together to divulge it at once. Once the announcement was made, one-by-one the inner circle came to wish them their blessings. Iron Bull was the first, bounding ahead of the rest to clap Cullen on the back. Cullen had hardly expected such an enthusiastic reaction from the giant Qunari and all Cullen could conclude was that the Iron Bull just _really liked weddings_. Cassandra, especially by comparison to Bull, was quite composed though Cullen could see just underneath the surface; the woman was all joyful smiles for them. Varric offered to help Cullen write his vows and promised the Inquisitor that he’d make sure to write a beautiful love story in honor of them, just to discourage any gossip that this wedding was an elaborate political move. Dorian beamed from ear to ear as he shook Cullen’s hand and promised to pour through every Fereldan record he could find to see if he could dig up a proper Rutherford coat of arms to entangle with the Trevelyan crest. To the Dorian’s everlasting credit, his smile did not falter when the Inquisitor thanked him, but murmured that she was _no longer a Trevelyan_. Madam Vivienne congratulated them and told them that she’d help out Josephine with the arrangements as much as possible, mentioning she had a fashion designer in Val Royeux who owed her a favor. Solas complimented them on their strategy in his quiet way. When Blackwall approached to offer his blessings, Cullen was sure he could detect a note of despair in the man’s voice. He wondered if he’d interrupted a secret courtship between the two of them, though certainly Leliana would have mentioned such a thing. Still, he shook Cullen’s hand and looked him square in the eye when he offered his congratulations. Sera gave her best wishes, in her own fashion, by saying how good of Trevelyan it was to marry someone like Cullen rather than a ‘puffed up twit’, which Cullen had to suppose spoke favorably of him. Cole popped up lastly, never failing to give Cullen an uneasy jolt in his chest. 

“Varric says I should give my congratulations.”

“Thank you, Cole,” the Inquisitor murmured, smiling softly at the spirit and Cullen couldn’t help but admire the way her eyes shone in the light as she smiled. 

“It wasn’t you,” the spirit blurted out. “He did love you, he just loved glittering things more. It won’t hurt this time. He doesn’t like glittering things, except your eyes.”

The Inquisitor flushed, her cheeks turning a bright red as she looked away and hid her face behind the guise of running a hand through her hair. 

“Thank you, Cole,” Cullen ground out, his own cheeks beginning to burn. The way the spirit, or whatever he was, saw through into his very thoughts was always unnerving. Maker, if Cole had seen his thoughts about a marriage bed with the Inquisitor…. Cullen felt his stomach flip-flop in embarrassment. 

As the entire inner circle retreated, Cullen and the Inquisitor finally found themselves alone. She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest as Cullen’s hand swept upwards to rub the back of his neck unconsciously. 

“Inquisitor, I-I-” he began, his words faltering on his tongue. “I am sorry about Cole.”

“Oh, no, don’t be. He’s just being helpful, even if he is wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Elijah never liked my eyes; he used to tease me that it looked like I had mud in my eyes.”

Unreasonable anger brushed through Cullen and without thinking, he replied: “I think you have lovely eyes.”

“Oh,” she answered, surprise evident in the way her eyebrows rose towards her hairline. “Thank you.”

The thickness of awkward silence washed over them again.

“I haven’t seen you very much of late.”

“Oh, no, I have been-” she said, her voice faltering. 

“Busy, of course,” he finished for her. 

“Yes, just so.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I, ah…”

“Are you…feeling well?”

“Yes, I am.” he replied, grateful for the easier subject change. Once the knowledge that this was a conversation going absolutely nowhere set in, however, Cullen felt all anxiety rush straight back into him. “Thank you for asking. Ah, how are you?”

“I am…fine, I suppose.”

As the heavy blanket of their mutual discomfort threatened to smother them again, they were saved as one of the Inquisition runners came jogging over and begged the Inquisitor away. She smiled, in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes before nodding her head at him and leaving with the messenger. Cullen groaned to himself, but breathed a heavy sigh of relief all the same. Maker, he was terrible at this. He tried to ignore the sudden wave of guilt that washed over him. He knew that if it was awkward for him, it had to be doubly so for the Inquisitor. Discussions of their future would just have to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Justinian, 9:41 Dragon**

Isobel knew that her behavior was likely only making things more awkward between her and Cullen, but it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t know how to act around the man. Before, he’d always been someone with a kind smile and nothing more. He was a man that she’d always hoped to be friends with, as she knew he could never lower himself to be with a woman of her status. It wasn’t right by him; he was a handsome, strong man with clear heart and while he may not have been noble by birth, Isobel knew he had honor and graciousness to rival any King, Prince or Teyrn of Thedas. Though Maker knew, that if she had not been sullied by Elijah’s lies and betrayal, Cullen was just the sort of man she knew that she wanted to be with. Yet, like this, this _sham_ was not what she wanted. This was wrong and she was stealing his future from him. For as much as she might rise from their union, Cullen’s fall would be just as equal. 

“Inquisitor?”

She blinked and looked up into the concerned faces of her advisors. With the weight of her future once again pinning her body down, Isobel found it difficult to focus on the mundane things like construction projects and troop movements. 

“My apologies, a momentary abstraction. Please continue, Leliana.”

Leliana’s melodic voice filled the war room as she explained why it was best to send her agents, rather than Cullen’s soldiers, to Orlais for one of the many operations the Inquisition had in progress. Isobel tried to pay as close attention as she could, but a knock at the war room door pulled her to distraction again and a parchment envelope was pressed into her hands. 

“For me?” Isobel asked, bewildered. Most people wrote to her through Josephine. 

“Aye, your worship. We were told from the courier that we had to put the envelope directly into your hands.”

“I see. Thank you.”

The front of the parchment was written in a scrawl entirely familiar but impossible to identify. She _knew_ that hand from somewhere, a memory from long ago. Her fingers itched as she flipped the parchment over, and in the red wax seal she saw a crest that was equally as familiar as the handwriting on the front. She traced her nail over the etchings in the wax before she broke it and unfolded the parchment. 

_Bel,_

_You’re getting married! How extraordinary. My wife - you remember Maris, of course - and I were debating just the other day if you would ever find someone willing to marry you. I guess you have and a dog lord commoner at that. How quaint! I suppose chantry life can really change a person. It was so good of you to invite Maris and I to your wedding, we’d be delighted to attend and what a perfect way to show that I am more than willing to forgive you for your transgressions. Your nuptials are all anyone in the Marches can talk about. Our entire circle is anxiously awaiting their invitations. I do hope you aren’t going to snub anyone. You can’t be bitter forever, ‘Bel and by now its time that you let everyone see how sorry you are for your ill behavior._

_I can’t wait to see you and I expect a kiss from the blushing bride. Well, the bride anyway. I don’t think you have anything to blush about!_

_ECR  
Elijah Reynauld, Bann of Northwatch_

_P.S. By the way, we had a laugh over the whimsical little doodles all over the invitation. You are becoming positively barbarian in dog land, aren’t you?_

“Inquisitor?” she heard Cullen’s concerned voice breaking through the sudden din in her hearing. 

She looked up, squeezing the parchment in shaking hands as she eyed Josephine. “Did you invite Elijah?”

“Your worship?” Josephine murmured, taking half a step back from the war table. 

Isobel didn’t protest as Cullen came around and gently eased the parchment out of her hands. Instead, she ignored him completely, her dark eyes glittering with anger as she stared down the unnerved Ambassador. “Did. You. Invite. Elijah?” she asked, grinding out every word. 

“N-No, your worship. I would never presume to invite him, or his family to your wedding. I had their name set aside to ask you if you wished for them to receive an invitation.”

Isobel cradled her head in her hands before she pushed her fingers through the thick orange locks that had been pulled back into a prim bun. Now, as she gripped and pulled at her hair, she looked positively wild. The prospect of seeing Elijah again, after so many years was enough to send her running for the farthest-reaching borders of Thedas. Maker, give her demons and ancient darkspawn any day, as long as she didn’t have to face the ghosts of her past. From her over her shoulder she heard Cullen make a small sound of annoyance in his throat. She looked and saw he had the parchment open in his hands, his eyes scanning across Elijah’s letter. Embarrassment flushed through her, as Elijah’s coarse language drifted in her mind. 

“Commander, I- I apologize for the language of this letter. I’m horrified to think that-”

Cullen looked up and as his eyes met hers, Isobel felt her words catch in her mouth. He was smiling at her, his gentle and warm expression that had brought her through the dark times before Haven. It was astonishing that he didn’t look angry or upset at being called such slurs. As he tore his gaze from hers and back to the letter, his expression shifted instantly. 

“If he thinks that _you_ need to be forgiven,” Cullen growled, as his brow furrowed and eyes burned with anger. Isobel blinked. Elijah had insulted Cullen, called him common and implied him to be an unworthy husband to even a woman of ill virtue. Why he was speaking about her not needing forgiveness? Certainly the slights to his name were more important? He looked up from the letter and addressed Leliana and Josephine: “he mentions doodles on his invitation.”

Suddenly, Josephine’s expression darkened. “Sera.”

Isobel’s heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in short as the world dipped around her. She heard Leliana murmur for someone to fetch Sera to the war room immediately as a strong arm encircled her shoulders. She leaned into the warm body unconsciously, needing the comfort of another person as she struggled to clear her mind of the sudden, overwhelming fog of anxiety. The arm gripped her tighter and Isobel allowed herself to be pulled closer the solid form, her mind barely registering as she felt her hands slide against chilled metal and her cheek brush against soft fur. It was when Cullen’s voice drifted into her ears, murmuring for her to breathe evenly that Isobel felt as if she had righted. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed as she realized that she’d invaded Cullen’s personal space. She pushed away from him quickly, willing the flush in her cheeks to just be heat without color. “I apologize. I was quite overcome.”

“There’s no-” he began, but was swiftly interrupted by the door swinging open, followed by a visibly confused Sera marching inside. 

“Sera!” Josephine hissed. “Did you play one of your jokes with the papers on my desk?”

“Which papers?”

“The wedding invitations, Sera,” Leliana answered. 

“I shuffled some of yer papers around, just for a bit of a laugh. You’re always so organized, I though’ a little chaos d’you some good.”

“Sera! Those were draft invitations to the Inquisitor’s former betrothed and her family. They weren’t to be sent out,” Josephine said, unable to hide the frustration from her voice.

"We think we you shuffled the papers, one of the Aides may have sent out some invitations by accident." 

The young elf’s eyes widened and apologies began to flow from her lips in like rushing water and Isobel found herself gripping the girl’s shoulders, promising her it was all right. She knew that Sera hadn’t meant to cause any real harm. 

The panic that had immediately set in slowly began to ease off. Her thoughts flowed clearer through her mind as her pulse slowed. Seeing Elijah again had been something that Isobel had never even considered. After all, why would a high and proud Bann ever want to lower himself to be seen with the woman who betrayed their troth and lost her virtue for it? She knew from the gossip that always managed to reach her that a mere few months after Elijah and Maris’s wedding, the original Bann of Northwatch had died quite suddenly and Elijah was crowned Bann. By all reports, he and Maris were quite happy together, though they had yet to produce any children.

* * *

As the date of the wedding drew near, Isobel found that she could no longer make any excuses to Madame Vivienne and Josephine about buying her wedding clothes; so, she found herself staring up into the windows of one of the most intimidating dress shops in all of Val Royeaux. From the outside, the shop was all elegance and perfection and looking up at it, Isobel could remember a time when she would have fainted at the prospect of being able to wear the latest fashions from Orlais. But, that was many years ago and now, she hadn’t worn finery since her sister’s wedding. She hadn’t been permitted luxuries in the Chantry, her robes had been made from scratchy, cheap linen and her under things were not soft and pretty as they had once been. Looking at the models standing in the shop’s windows, posing with their fine gowns and beautiful masks was like looking directly into the face of a ghost and Isobel could not help but wonder what might have been. 

Still, despite her disowned status Isobel had been raised a lady and she would not be rude to anyone in their small, odd party by acting dour; she’d shoulder the discomfort, swallow the pain of the past, and keep moving forward. It was Cassandra, instead who made a small disapproving noise in the back of her throat as she was ushered into the shop. The Seeker was quickly _tsked_ by Leliana, whom Isobel had never before seen so happy. It was easy to forget that beneath the dark and mysterious spymaster there was a woman who loved pretty things. Though Cassandra outwardly disapproved, it was easy to see from the way her fingers would drift across the fabric of a gown that she was just as enthralled as Josephine and Leliana. While she certainly didn’t show the outward glee of Leliana or the cheerful grin of Josephine, Madame Vivienne was clearly in her element. She inspected garments critically, noticed the minute details that all others would miss. Isobel had invited Sera to come along on the trip, but the elf had made a face and vehemently refused. 

The shopkeeper, a woman in one of the most beautiful gowns - cream colored silk, white embroidery and delicate pearls - Isobel had ever seen curtsied deeply to them, well, to Vivienne at least. “Madame de Fer, always a delight to see you. How can my humble shop be of use to you?”

Madame Vivienne, who’d had her back turned to the shopkeeper as she inspected the stitching on a beautiful blue frock, straightened her spine and blinked, but didn’t turn around. “ _Inquisitor_ ,” she began pointedly, causing the shopkeeper to start and face Isobel fully. “Have you given a thought to the sort of wedding clothes you would like to buy?”

“Ah, I had heard that the Inquisitor was to be married. I had no idea you were considering coming to Orlais for your clothes.”

“Orlesian fashion is supposed to be the best, is it not?” Josephine asked, her tone too even to be natural. 

“Of course, it is only-” the woman began. “It is no matter. What were you thinking?”

“Oh,” Isobel stammered. “I actually had not considered…”

“What about color?”

Cassandra spoke up at last, “white is the traditional color, is it not?”

The shopkeeper balked. “There is no way that she could wear white, it is for women who-”

As Isobel’s stomach turned and flipped with embarrassment and her cheeks burned like fire, Madame Vivienne spoke up, talking loudly over the shopkeeper: “White? My dear Seeker, don’t be ridiculous. Anyone with the a modicum of taste and awareness knows that whites and creams are simply _démodé_.” The shopkeeper instantly jumped back, horror evident even below the half mask she wore. Just then, Vivienne turned and made a show of looking the shopkeeper’s dress up and down before she simply scrunched her nose and said, “oh, dear.”

The First Enchanter made another show of stepping past the embarrassed clerk to eye some more of the frocks on display. “The Inquisitor must look extraordinary and one of a kind on her wedding day; she’s one of the most powerful women in Thedas, after all and she is worthy of respect and admiration by,” Vivienne paused, glanced back over her shoulder at the clerk and gave the woman another disdainful look, “ _common_ people.” 

Smirking, Leliana added, “Perhaps we should look elsewhere, Inquisitor.”

“No!” the clerk declared suddenly, her voice cracking a little from the strain. “I have just the thing, I shall return in just a moment.”

As the woman disappeared into the back, Josephine and Leliana burst into giggles. Isobel, still embarrassed, kept her head downcast until a strong finger under her chin tilted her head up. The First Enchanter’s face was surprisingly warm as she regarded Isobel. “Never let them see you sweat, my dear.”

“How do you do it?” Isobel whispered.

“I’m a woman and a mage, they’ll fear me twice as much so I _make them_ fear me twice as much,” she murmured as she stroked the side of her thumb across the Inquisitor’s burning cheek. The touch was instantly cooling, soothing against Isobel’s skin. “They fear you too. A woman who was cast down by society and yet continued to rise, supposedly with help from Andraste herself. You could turn the tide in how woman are looked on in our world. A heavy burden, but you bear it well.”

Isobel offered her a small smile. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do, my dear.”

As Vivienne moved to step away, Isobel asked, “how did you know she was wearing white?”

“I'm observant, dear. It's an outcast's best survival skill.”

The clerk returned with an ornate monstrosity a moment later. It was navy blue, with a velvet bodice with beading more intricate than any master painter’s brush strokes. Yet it was the skirt, which had to be turned on its side and squeezed just to fit through the doorway that made Isobel’s eyes bug out of her head; Cassandra made a noise as if she’d seen something disgusting and Isobel was nearly inclined to agree. Though it was pretty enough, she couldn’t imagine wearing such a thing. The shopkeeper showed it to Vivienne, who in turn pointedly asked Isobel what she thought of it. 

“Oh, I uh,” Isobel began, willing her voice to remain even. “It’s a little…big. The skirt, I mean”

“Yes, indeed it isn’t at all suitable for anything other than a costume party,” Vivienne added.

Isobel chewed on her lip for a moment before she blurted out, “the color isn’t right.”

Vivienne’s eyes sparkled and the corners of her lips twitched a little as she regarded the Inquisitor. Not bothering to hide the pride in her voice, “you’re quite right. Navy would like frightful with your hair.”

“What color would the Lady Inquisitor prefer?” the clerk asked in a small voice. 

“Violet,” Isobel said quickly.

When the clerk disappeared into the back again, Isobel let out a breath she hadn’t realized that she’d been holding. Glancing around the room, she saw the rest of her party was smiling brightly at her. Vivienne practically beamed for a moment before she slipped back into her usual neutral expression. In the end, Isobel wound up ordering a custom piece she’d carefully chosen with the promise that it would be the finest gown the shop had ever made. As they left, Isobel found her heart a little lighter than normal and she felt as if a long-lost piece of herself had finally been returned to the proper spot. 

“You have excellent taste, my dear,” Vivienne said as they walked through the market. 

“There was a time, long ago, when my clothes set the trends of young well-born ladies in Ostwick. I had thought that part of me to be quite gone. I guess, it was just dormant.”

“And now you will decide the tastes of Thedas,” Josephine remarked, smiling. 

“Maker forbid,” the she quipped and, before she could stop herself, Isobel laughed. 

* * *

If Isobel thought that Elijah attending her wedding was the biggest shock she’d receive, she was quite wrong. With less than five weeks away from the date, Skyhold received a letter from Isobel’s parents stating that they were going to attend the ceremony. With the confirmation that the Teyrn of Ostwick, the Margrave of Ansburg and their families would also be making the journey to Skyhold, Isobel had little reason to wonder why her parents had suddenly decided that she existed again. She’d learned that Cullen’s family had also accepted their invitations, though as she understood it, that idea was never in question. Apparently his sisters, brother, their spouses and no less than seven nieces and nephews were going to be descending upon Skyhold. 

The housing situation for the wedding had become a nightmare and Isobel was not too proud to admit that she was glad the duty of finding a place for every guest to sleep did not fall on to her shoulders. Josephine had promised few headaches and so far, she had delivered admirably. 

When she was a girl, Isobel had dreamt of her wedding day and what grandeur it would bring into their lives. She’d imagined being married in the Teyrn’s keep, wearing a gown with a train that stretched the length of the Teyrn’s home. She’d dreamt that she would be dripping with jewels and everyone would know her as Isobel, rather than the Bann’s youngest child. After, when she had no hope of ever marrying, Isobel had let those dreams fade away into nothingness. Now calling upon that desire again, the dream of being a beautiful bride, was like trying to get blood from stone. She should be happier, but all she felt was guilt. 

Cullen seemed to shoulder his sacrifice admirably and even with the dread of their wedding that was sure he felt, he seemed to be looking forward to seeing his family again. Surprisingly, he’d even said that they were ‘looking forward to meeting her’. She could understand that they’d want to meet her, no doubt to chastise her for marrying their brother and cementing his ruin. But Fereldans were odd people, perhaps ‘looking forward’ meant that they were anxiously awaiting their opportunity to saying their piece and disapproval about the wedding.

Even with the short time away from the ceremony, the entire thing felt surreal. When the early arrivals began to file through the front gates, still the entire thing felt like a dream. It wasn’t until the Inquisition’s carpenters and stoneworkers came into her chambers under the pretense of needing to build a space for Cullen’s belongings that their impending marriage felt suddenly and keenly _real_. She ran out to her balcony, gulping in huge gasps of cold mountain air as she suddenly realized that she was in fact going to be the wife of a man. Wives were supposed to perform _duties_ for their husbands. Maker, she’d considered that part of her life long over. The memories of Elijah’s hands on her body, the discomfort, the pain of lying with him came flooding back. She liked Cullen a lot, he had been kind to her when all others treated her with disdain. While she wasn’t looking forward to the nights they’d spend together, perhaps with Cullen’s kindness it would be easier to bear. It was difficult to not let her mind drift, to imagine him covering her lips with his. His hands, finally gloveless, stroking her face and touching the softer parts of herself. 

She cleared her throat, pushing the scandalous thoughts from her mind. Maker, how was she ever going to face him without blushing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because chapter 3 wasn't that much 'new' content, I decided to go ahead and post chapter 4, which is 100% new to all of you. 
> 
> So, this content was written about a year ago now. I've read through it so many times that it still seems like a consistant voice to me. But I am concerned that both my writing style and Isobel's character have changed a bit as if I've been working on this. If you notice an inconsistency, please let me know. 
> 
> I do hope that everyone is enjoying the new stuff so far. Please let me know!


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